


An Ephemeral Truth

by Rasborealis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: And Letting Go Of Said Baggage, And Walking Around, Because That Seems Like The Thing To Do, Catharsis, Emotional Baggage, Feelings, Happy Ending, Harry Feels Lost, M/M, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, So He Searches For Truth And Meaning, Sort Of, Which I Think Is A Pretty Human Thing To Feel At That Point, that's literally it - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 22:14:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21004997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rasborealis/pseuds/Rasborealis
Summary: Between the end of the battle and the rest of his life, Harry goes on a search.





	An Ephemeral Truth

An hour after the battle is finished, Harry is still wondering what he’s supposed to be feeling right now. 

There is the bone-deep weariness, of course, a result of not only the battle itself, but of the events that preceded it – of the entire year, in a way. It had all been so transient, so precarious, a state of things that could not sustain itself indefinitely, and that put more pressure on him than he’d thought he could handle. Harry had skirted the edge of the precipice for so long he’d gotten used to the vertigo, and now that he has jumped, that he is free-falling…he’s helplessly searching for his new truth. 

The dichotomy that surrounds him has him teetering, the mourning and the celebrations, the loss and the relief. His emotions can’t decide on their place within the spectrum, can’t even manage to find their way out of the fog that clouds his instincts, his feelings, his focus. 

It’s over, all of it, after such a very long time, and he thought he would know relief when the time came, but right now, he knows nothing. He is a puppet with cut strings. His purpose is fulfilled, and he thinks he should know what is next, that people will expect him to know, but he has lost the ability to move forward. 

He is wrapped in his cloak, perversely more thankful for it than he has ever been, and his feet carry him past those who would look at him in ways he does not want, that he will never want. Hidden, he leaves the noise and expectations behind and walks at random, past the destruction, past the rubble, through those parts of the castle that are broken, but also those who are whole. His cloak is back in his robe as soon as he feels it’s safe to take off, and he lets his eyes wander, still searching for something he can’t define. 

He catches movement from the corner of his eye, a pale and blond vision that is drifting like a ghost through the shambles, searching. A feeling of kinship floods him, blessedly cool tranquility. He waits until Draco has reached him, and then they walk together like that was how they had been meant to end up all along. 

And maybe, maybe they had, Harry thinks, smiling at the odd thought. It feels right in a way he can’t define. 

He stops at a window and steps up to it to survey the destruction. He’s sure everyone will join the rebuilding, that a world without Voldemort will band them together, if only for a time. The thought is nice, comforting, but not what he needs right now. He looks over to Draco, who is leaning against a bare stretch of wall, one foot propped against it, and is searching Harry’s face for something. 

Harry isn’t sure for what. He wonders if Draco knows it, himself. 

He doesn’t realize how helpless and open his expression is until Draco steps up to him, hesitating, but at last reaching out. Harry feels comforted as a warm, dry hand cups his cheek. His eyes fall closed. 

“You did well,” Draco says, a single step away from a whisper. His voice is raw, like he’s been screaming. “You did well.” Just that, a reassurance Harry hadn’t known he’d needed until he heard the words. 

There is so much between them, history and hurt, but in this very moment, it all drains away like snow on a warm summer day. Harry fancies he can feel the sunrays on his skin. 

“I think…” Harry starts, then breathes, deeply, to fortify. “I think it’s never been as easy as this before, you and I.”

The corner of Draco’s mouth twitches. “We’ve never tried.” His hand is still cupping Harry’s face, and Harry finds himself wishing they could stay this way indefinitely. Draco is an oasis for Harry’s lost soul, not home, not yet, but a welcome reprieve, nonetheless.

“I was scared,” Draco says. “I’ve always been scared.”

“And now it’s over,” Harry whispers. 

“Yes. Now it’s over. For now.”

“I wish I could make it forever,” Harry says helplessly. 

Draco moves his hand, but only to stroke strands of Harry’s hair away from his forehead, gently, like a mother might. He gives Harry a long, thoughtful look. For a long time, they are silent. Their gazes meet and part, again and again. 

“I never understood you,” Draco says. “Not until now. I never could, and now…now it seems easy.”

Harry knows what he means. He wants to tell Draco he, too, finally understands, now that he can look back at everything without the distortion of anger, of bitterness, of fear. He wants to talk about their upbringings, how their clash had been inevitable because of them. He wants to let Draco know that he gets it now, how, at eleven, Draco had first forayed outside of a pureblood bubble that had surrounded him his entire life, shaping his thinking and bolstering his conviction, how he had never had a chance before to form an opinion of his own, and Harry, without knowing it, had rejected all that Draco had ever been and known. How they’d both been shaped by friendship and expectation and history. How they had shared an inability to empathize, to a degree they couldn’t ever have imagined would be necessary to bridge the gap. How they’d both been prisoners to machinations bigger than them. How their difficult decisions had made a difference during that horrible last year. 

But this isn’t the time. They can talk about this later, when Harry isn’t busy letting his instincts guide him and leaning forward to press his dry lips to Draco’s. It feels like giving in to inevitability. He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Neither of them seems surprised by it. Draco returns the gentle pressure, reaches up to run his fingers through Harry’s filthy, sweat- and blood-soaked hair. Harry lifts his hands to touch wherever he can get to, feels Draco’s wince as he brushes a bruise. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, and draws away. 

Draco’s gaze is fierce. “I don’t care.”

Harry knows exactly what he means. He doesn’t care either. Not about anything that isn’t deeply entrenched in his heart right at this very moment. 

So they stand there, in a crumbling corridor, swaying with exhaustion, and hold each other like a life line, kiss each other like they’ve found their truth. Harry is still free-falling, but it feels like he’s soaring, and he isn’t doing it alone. Draco is with him like a revelation always meant to happen. 

Together, they greet the dawn.


End file.
